


Never to Be Returned

by May_Shepard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal, Bondage, Established Relationship, I Blame Tumblr, I'm not sorry though, It's traditional in these situations to apologize, M/M, Other, Porn, Tumblr Prompt, brollylock, umbrella fucking, violence against umbrellas, written to save a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4139214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My contribution to the brollylock Tumblr challenge, which my alter-ego might have had a hand in helping to instigate. </p><p>John Watson, proven champion at stuffing things down his pants and keeping them there for hours, uses this skill to steal Mycroft's umbrella. Sherlock has ideas about what they should do with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never to Be Returned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Giveusakiss4132](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveusakiss4132/gifts).



They crashed through the sitting room door, shoulders bumping, Sherlock half dragging John over the threshold, John limping hideously but definitely not psychosomatically, his arm slung over Sherlock's shoulder. They banged the door shut and Mrs. Hudson's voice drifted up the stairs.

"Boys! Manners!"

"Sorry!" They both shouted before they collapsed against each other in another bout of laughter. Sherlock shook helplessly and John fumbled at his flies.

"Help me," he snorted. "I can't have this thing down here any longer."

Sherlock looked him up and down, gorgeous John standing there with his right leg locked straight, as it had been for the past two hours, through the agonizing meeting with Mycroft and his cronies, government business, very hush hush, very important, extremely crucial and boring as hell.

He stood back and let John wait a moment longer, all exaggerated discomfort and sparkling eyes. "More challenging than a tire iron then."

John grinned. "There might be chafing."

"Don't blame me," Sherlock said as he stepped to John, toe to toe, chest to chest, and slid his hand down the front of John's open trousers. "You're the one who decided to steal it."

John licked his lips and looked at Sherlock through his lashes. "You know you were misbehaving. I had to do something to entertain you or the whole meeting was going to go tits up and we would have been there even longer."

"But still. You shouldn't have." Sherlock reached further down, pressing languorously to the tune of John's deepening ragged breaths. His fingers skimmed John's hardening cock through John's pants as he closed his hand around the handle of Mycroft's umbrella.

Mycroft had, of course, been completely aware of what John had done when he came limping back into the conference room after his trip to the loo. His face had gone a satisfying shade of red. Everyone had noticed something was wrong, but no one dared ask, not when John stared them all down, the most serious of expressions on his face. Even big brother had been cowed by the prospect of asking after his umbrella (location: John's trousers) in a room full of distinguished peers.

Sherlock silently thanked whatever god of mischief that had inspired John today, and while he was at it, thanked the celestial ministers of luck and risk that had brought them together in the first place.

John's hand sought Sherlock's low back and he pulled their bodies together as Sherlock drew the umbrella up and out. They both gasped as the shaft with its furled fabric skimmed them. Sherlock took his time with the extraction, teasing. When it was done, they were pressed together, only clothes between them, the umbrella held in Sherlock's hand.

"Think he'll come looking for it?" John asked, his rueful smile turning feral as he bit his lower lip.

Sherlock contemplated the umbrella for a long moment. "You know, I think I'm becoming rather...attached to it. The more I look at it, the more I think this umbrella could be a key element in an experiment I've always thought about trying but never knew how."

John's giggle huffed out of him. He leaned in, pulled Sherlock's collar aside, and grazed Sherlock's clavicle with his teeth. Sherlock's breath caught.

"What experiment?" John murmured into Sherlock's neck.

"I want to know if my brother has ever touched anything that could be considered fun."

It was only half a joke. The umbrella was the very symbol of everything Mycroft, and therefore of the most Mycroft-ish parts of Sherlock: the sad, lonely, far-too-independent parts. The parts he'd hoped to forever excise. 

"Mmm," John hummed, his mouth still occupied. Sherlock clutched the umbrella, quickly losing focus on it as John moved to his mouth, lips and tongue and teeth insistent, and kissed him hard for long seconds.

When John pulled back, he'd taken the umbrella from Sherlock's hand. John grinned up at him, mischief and desire playing in his eyes. "Come on," he said. "Let's give this umbrella the go-around of its life."

***

John started, as John often did, by tearing off most of Sherlock's clothes and pushing him down on the bed. Sherlock laid propped on his elbows, trousers down around his ankles, the tip of his throbbing cock pushing out of the band of his pants, breathless with need. Still fully clothed--regrettably, John had even done his trousers back up--John studied the umbrella, turned it in his hands, and ran the handle down the side of Sherlock's face, placed it square in the centre of his chest, and pushed him flat.

"I can't see you if I'm looking at the ceiling," Sherlock said.

"Don't you worry about that," John growled. "You don't need to see."

"What if I want to?" Sherlock could keep neither the whine nor the anticipation from his voice. When he was in the mood to be decisive, John was totally irresistible.

"If you complain I'll blindfold you." The umbrella handle carried on its slow downward trajectory, meeting the tip of Sherlock's cock and making him hiss. "Is that what you want?"

Sherlock raised his head enough to watch John as he took the band of Sherlock's pants in his teeth and pulled them down. Sherlock couldn't reply at all as John lifted his balls and pressed the umbrella handle against his perineum, hard enough to make him see sparks and at the same time not nearly hard enough.

"Hmm?" John asked, all hard edges and sharp glass. "Is it?"

Sherlock shook his head, as John pressed and released the handle into him. He needed so many things, but they should start with something they would both like. "I think I want you to tie me down," he said. "Otherwise I might misbehave before we really see what that umbrella can do." He allowed his voice to sink into its lower depths, all rich butter and velvet. "It's the only way to keep me from swallowing you down immediately."

John raised his eyebrows and stopped what he was doing, stopped everything, and just watched Sherlock with such unadulterated lust and love that Sherlock was certain John would simply tear off his own clothes, climb over him and fuck his mouth right then and there. That of course would be fine but he rather hoped they could play this out. He only felt truly comfortable in his skin when it was on fire, like it was right now.

John growled low in his throat and Sherlock scrambled to reorient himself on the pillows. John reached under the covers for the harness they'd rigged to the bed's legs, the best way they'd devised to tie someone to a sleigh bed. It had taken a bit of doing but once they'd set it up it was always in place and quite hidden by the bedclothes. Clever.

"No," John said. "Not on your back."

A thrill went through Sherlock as John tied his wrists and ankles. He was utterly spread, helpless and aching and so glad they were no longer at that meeting. His dick was trapped between his belly and the blanket. John took a pillow and pulled his hips up enough to slide it beneath him. He closed himself over Sherlock then, kneeling over him and leaning into his backside. John's cock pressed, hard and insistent even through his clothes, grinding into him as John reached around to stroke him.

"God, you're so ready, aren't you?" John murmured into the back of Sherlock's neck, biting him again, then sucking hard at the skin of his nape.

John had tied him well. Between the harness and the pillow he could barely move at all. He was held down and propped up and indeed so, so ready.

John slid open the bedside table drawer and there was the sound of the lube cap coming off, then the slide of John's hands together as he coated them and warmed them up, and then, oh then, slick fingers between his buttocks, against his hole, and in. John held there, moved gently until Sherlock's entire body was humming, his hips straining to buck but shifting only incrementally into the pillow as hard as he could. It wasn't nearly enough.

John slid the umbrella under Sherlock, arranging it between his legs so the fabric-wrapped shaft pressed against his cock, the length of it running up along his chest and just past his armpit. It was just enough pressure, just that little bit more, that he could grind against. He groaned. John was so good to him.

Then the cool curved handle was pressing up against him, the tip, well lubed, just slipping in. He was so open already, so relaxed.

It was hardly as much as he'd grown accustomed to, but it was impersonal, it was plastic despite Mycroft's posh taste, and John knew just how to angle it. Rough sparks of pleasure shot all over his body, focused on that one place that Mycroft's umbrella, his fucking brother's fucking ridiculous affectation, hit just right, all guided by John, brilliant John getting him off in just exactly the right way, John who moaned above him, John who held him down with one hand planted squarely in the small of his back, crushing him and restraining him and fucking him raucously now with the umbrella handle, the cloth of the furled canopy catching his cock and cradling it as John pressed and moved him.

He exploded into the fabric, practically exiting his body with the sheer glorious rightness and wrongness of it.

The next thing he knew John was at his ankles, releasing him and rolling him over, pelvis up on the pillow and hiked in the air, the umbrella, the handle now extracted from inside him, pressing painfully into his spine as his hands, still bound, crossed at the wrist over his head.

He was quite helpless. Based on the smile on John's face, he knew it.

"Nothing to say?" John asked him as he stood by the edge of the bed and stripped.

Sherlock's head shake was small, almost negligible, but John saw. John saw him, saw everything.

In these small, quiet moments after John pulled an orgasm from him, when he was tied, he felt truly placid. A small, temporary version of peace, when the world, just for a moment, held still, when his mind held still. His back muscles clenched along the length of the umbrella, and there was John's naked body, bright with tension and need, from his taut calves and thighs across his scarred shoulder and his gleaming chest, down to the thick cock that dripped and heaved against his belly, all for Sherlock.

John climbed onto the bed, hoisted Sherlock's legs onto his shoulders, and eased into him. Sherlock let his head fall back and moaned, breathing in the rhythm of John's slow slide. The umbrella still irked and pressed and ground against his spine.

It wasn't unwelcome. Crushed into it, all the irritation he'd ever felt with his brother was, as it always was, counterbalanced by the fullness of John, the weight of John, the heat of John pressing into him and above him, moaning his name like an ineloquent prayer, only his name, over and over.

John picked up speed and Sherlock used his left hand to loosen the bind on his right wrist. He hiked up his pelvis to reach underneath him and shift the umbrella. It wasn't right that it should simply lie there. Well, the shaft was bent already, but surely it was still semi-functional. John moaned and twitched and slid inside him as he found the button and pressed it.

Mycroft's umbrella strained beneath him to unleash itself, the ribs and stretchers bending into him, the canopy partially unfolding under his shoulders and neck and sticking painfully as John rolled between his legs and pressed himself, chest to Sherlock's chest, pushing him down harder into the bed. Mycroft's umbrella popped and tore as John shouted and came inside him, pumping hotly into him.

It was exactly the exorcism he'd wanted, everything _Mycroft_ released, crushed: living warm John above him; dry, broken detritus of a life unlived beneath him.

John collapsed over him and slid out of him, dripping sweat onto his chest and throat and bending in to kiss him fully, softly.

"Roll," he said finally, and Sherlock did, the umbrella's bent metal frame taking a last stab at him like a dying thing.

"Christ, your back," John said. "You're bleeding." He pulled the umbrella out from beneath him.

It was a wretched thing now, the shaft completely snapped, the ribs bent in all directions, the cloth torn away from them and bearing a large wet spot where Sherlock had come all over it, the whole thing battered and turned inside out and discombobulated like a dead bat.

John dropped it on the floor, raised his eyebrows, and bit his lip. "That's it for that then." They were too exhausted to belly laugh like they had before, but Sherlock felt for once he could wholeheartedly match the merry look in John's eyes. 

"Indeed," he said before he grabbed John's shoulder and rolled him away from the edge of the bed.


End file.
